Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too by Nancy Martin Page A

stuff,” Emma agreed. “Sometimes I think he’s going to break out a pipe and start quoting Shakespeare.”
    â€œI like Shakespeare!”
    Libby looked concerned. “You’re not sounding like yourself, Nora.”
    â€œYeah,” said Emma, evil grin starting again. “It’s like your hormones are all messed up. Why don’t you grab your fat-free yogurt and tell Libby the big news?”
    Libby looked interested. “Big news?”
    â€œBrace yourself,” Emma advised.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Libby asked.
    â€œRat fink,” I said to Emma.
    â€œHey, you could have kept quiet about Boy.”
    The bell at my front door chimed then. Perfect timing.
    â€œAn early visitor?” Emma asked. “Your crossword soul mate, maybe?”
    â€œIt’s probably the plumber.” I checked the kitchen clock and wished I’d taken the time to get dressed. “I didn’t expect him so soon.”
    â€œHe comes running because you’re his best customer.” Emma headed out of the room. “I’ll get the door. Don’t tell Libby who the father is. Not until I get back, anyway.”
    Emma left, and Libby put the bagel on a plate and carried it to the table. Without thinking, she took a finger swipe of cream cheese from one of the bagels and licked it. “Whose father? What’s she talking about?”
    There was no sense postponing it any longer.
    I retied my belt again and sat down at the table. “Libby, I can’t be in your calendar photo. And I can’t go on a diet right now.”
    She eased her bottom onto the kitchen chair beside mine, instantly sympathetic. “Of course you can, Nora! I’ll help you every step of the way. You only need to drop a couple of tiny pounds—”
    â€œI’m not losing weight for your photographer, Libby. I—”
    â€œTwo pounds!” she cried. “Five at the most! Just enough to tighten up the jiggle in your derriere.”
    â€œMy derriere does not jiggle!”
    â€œIt’s to be expected once you hit thirty, Nora. I find the best solution is to exercise in the nude. That way, you have no secrets from yourself.” She held up one hand to stop me from speaking. “Now, don’t get angry. Getting down on yourself is the worst way to start a diet. Here, I brought you a present.” From the bottom of the Macy’s bag, she flourished a tiny slip of pink lace.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œIt’s a thong. The Hanky Panky, style 4911. Until you get thin, this is the answer. Honestly, Nora, all my friends swear by it. Even Monica Lewinsky looked good in the 4911!”
    I suspended the tiny thong from one finger. “Are you kidding?”
    â€œI’m totally serious. You’ll thank me the instant you put this on and look in the mirror. I brought you a week’s supply, all the colors. See? I bought them for myself, but they’re slightly the wrong size, so I thought of your bottom immediately! They’ll do wonders for the jiggle.”
    Before I could grab a frying pan to hit her, Emma came back into the kitchen. Followed by Boy Fitch, of all people.
    â€œNora,” she said, holding back a big laugh. “Boy’s come to see you.”
    I snatched the thongs off the table and stuffed them back into the Macy’s bag.
    Boy wore another pin-striped suit with a tie printed with tiny Uncle Sams, and he carried a newspaper under his arm as if setting out for his office. With his other hand, he held up a paper bag. “I figured if I disturbed you this early, I’d better bring breakfast. It’s bagels.”
    I shoved the Macy’s bag under the table. “Good morning, Boy.”
    â€œYou’ll have to slice them,” he said. “Last time I tried, I cut my thumb and ended up with twelve stitches.”
    â€œUhm, Boy, you know Emma, of course. And this is my sister